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It was a Dark and Stormy Night: Best of the Worst

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“The most wasted of days is that in which one has not laughed.”
-Sebastian Chamfort

I did not get much reading done these past few days, what with Zooey and all. Mostly I flicked through magazines, the literary equivalent of fast food.

Today is a gorgeous day, 72 degrees by noontime, and I am not about to waste it; I’ll spend the afternoon taking pictures and weeding the vegetable plot.

But for now, I could use a good laugh. And when I need a good laugh, I turn to the winners of the annual Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest: in which awards are given to the very worst opening sentences for novels thankfully unwritten.

So, without further ado! My favorite winners of 2007:

Danny, the little Grizzly cub, frolicked in the tall grass on this sunny Spring morning, his mother keeping a watchful eye as she chewed on a piece of a hiker they had encountered the day before.
Dave McKenzie
Federal Way, WA

She’d been strangled with a rosary-not a run-of-the-mill rosary like you might get at a Catholic bookstore where Hail Marys are two for a quarter and indulgences are included on the back flap of the May issue of “Nuns and Roses” magazine, but a fancy heirloom rosary with pearls, rubies, and a solid gold cross, a rosary with attitude, the kind of rosary that said, “Get your Jehovah’s Witness butt off my front porch.”
Mark Schweizer
Hopkinsville, KY

Samson looked in the mirror and, when he saw what a fantastic haircut Delilah had given him, he went weak at the knees.
Neil Prowd
Charnwood, ACT, Australia

Professor Radzinsky wove his fingers together in a tweed-like fabric, pinched his lips together like a blowfish, and began his lecture on simile and metaphor, which are, like, similar to one another, except that similes are almost always preceded by the word ‘like’ while metaphors are more like words that make you think of something else beside what you are describing.
Wayne McCoy
Gainesville Fl

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife, not even a sharp knife, but a dull one from that set of cheap knives you received as a wedding gift in a faux wooden block; the one you told yourself you’d replace, but in the end, forgot about because your husband ran off with another man, that kind of knife.
Lisa Lindquist
Jackson, MI

She had curves that just wouldn’t quit, like on one of those car commercials where a stunt driver slides a sexy new sports car around hairpin turn after hairpin turn while some poor musician, down on his luck and having been forced to sell out his dream of superstardom for a lousy 30-second ad jingle, sings “Zoom, zoom, zoom” in the background.
Amber Dubois
Denver, CO

Her hair was the color of old copper, not green with white streaks like you see on roofs and statues where birds have been messing, but the kind you find on dark pennies from back in the nineteen-forties or fifties after God knows how many thumbs have been rubbing Abe Lincoln’s beard.
Michael A. Cowell
Norwalk, CA

There was a pregnant pause– as pregnant as Judith had just told Darren she was (about seven and a half weeks along), which was why there was a pause in the first place.
Tracy Stapp
Santa Ana, CA

What a pity Dave was too young to have seen “2001: A Space Odyssey,” for he might have been able to predict what would happen next, when the ape standing next to the big black slab picked up the tapir bone.
Ann Medlock
Lenah Valley, TAS, Australia

“So that was your Earth emotion ‘love’,” gasped Zyxwlyxgwr Noopar, third in line to the holo-throne of S-6, as he hosed down his trunk and removed the shallots.
Mike Bollen
Brighton, UK

Racing through space at unimaginable speeds, Capt. Dimwell could only imagine how fast his spaceship was going.
Gary Smith
Florissant, CO

I was in a back alley in Fiji, fighting desperately and silently for my life, fighting desperately for oxygen, clawing at the calm and almost gentle pressure of the fabric held over my face by implacable, ebony thighs when I realized — he was killing me softly with his sarong.
Karl Scott
Brisbane, Australia

Morty, a dedicated track and field athlete, was disqualified and charged with animal cruelty after giving Viagra to his 20-foot boa constrictor and using the snake to pole vault.
JL Strickland
Valley, AL

His hat fit his head as snugly as a manhole cover does the thing it fits into.
Steve McAllister
Austin, TX

Miles Otterman thought he could get away with carving his initials on the old oak tree in the town square – and he just might have if Sheriff Mitchell hadn’t recognized his MO.
Terry Drapes
Taipa, Macau

If you think that the resemblance between the characters in this book and any person living or dead is only coincidental, you’re just not trying hard enough.
Janina Eggensperger
Conway, AR

Everything about Randy proclaimed him to be a man’s man, though neither in the sense of being the kind of man women are drawn to and men want to be nor in the homosexual sense, rather, in the sense of being a highly efficient and well-compensated valet.
Barbara Lauriat
Oxford, England

Jake entered the small suburban bank, his face as cold and frozen as Theodore Roosevelt’s on Mount Rushmore while at the same time his sweaty hands clenched and unclenched nervously in his pockets like one of those fast motion movies of flowers blooming and dying, to open a savings account.
Frank Leggett
Sydney, NSW, Australia

With “Bambi” eyes and an angelic face made for singing “The hills are alive” while traipsing across an Alpine meadow, Heidi Weissbrot seemed as pure as driven snow to older folks around Peach Blossom, but among boys her own age, there was a nasty rumor that her purity was more akin to snow driven to the river in dump trucks after being scraped from roads and parking lots.
Tom Rohde
Minneapolis, MN

The crater of the volcano glowed red against the black sky, looking as if God had taken a drag of His cigar – if He smoked – which of course, He didn’t.
Wendy Spoelstra
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada

John lay in the morning dew next to his sleeping love as the pink hues of the sun rose over the rolling hills, illuminating a tender scene where for the first time satisfaction had come for a happy couple, who had fought all manner of obstacles to come to this one glorious moment, defiant in the face of Montana’s repressive bestiality laws.
Dan Stuart
Burlington, VT

Dane worked the Spyrograph furiously, first red, then green, then red again, and finally blue; the pattern he sought was in there somewhere, and the correct combination would open the doors to a euphoria only known to dogs getting their stomachs scratched and parakeets viewing themselves in the mirror.
Matthew Warnock
Elgin, IL

“I’ll have a pack of cigarettes please, no, Marlboro 100’s . . . lights please, in a box, yeah, no, wait, give me a soft pack, no, not those, the ones right above them, no, no, right next to those, yeah, wait, make it two packs, no wait, how much are they . . . no, one pack will do me, and a lighter please, no the other one, yeah, that one will be fine,” he said quickly.
Shane Spears
Blytheville, AR

Happy Day! A new round of opening lines were submitted by an April 15th deadline, so soon I’ll be able to showcase the 2008 Best of the Worst”.

Also: this means I have over 11 months to write up my own submissions. Go me in 2009!

Life After Zooey

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This morning I was not awakened by a wet nose nudging my hand or hot rancid breath in my face. Instead, the harsh beep-beep-beep of my husband’s alarm.

I opened the kitchen door to let the cat in, but no shaggy black-and-grey dog went out.

No one kept me company or kept my feet warm while I packed lunches.

There was no one to give the last of my daughter’s cereal to. I had to throw it out.

I did not bother locking the pantry door; no one was going to stick his nose in a cereal box.

When I returned from the bus stop, the front door opened freely. There was no hundred pound bulk laying behind it, ensuring that he would be alerted when I returned.

All my routines lie in disarray. I miss my dog. My companion of thirteen years, who knew me before I was a wife and a mother, who loved me without condition and in spite of all my faults, mistakes, shortcomings and fits of pique, who was such a part of my day to day life that every stupid little action feels incomplete somehow.

He was a Good Dog.

He didn’t start out that way. He had a talent for sniffing out things that were new, and utterly, completely destroying them. He was especially good at finding things that were expensive, or had emotional value. Once he ate a wallet containing eighty dollars. And no food item was safe unless locked up in an airtight container, six feet off the ground.

We had a screen door that was slow to swing shut, and every time someone entered the house, voices would ring out, “Close the door!!!” but it was too late, a streak of black would have charged through the open opportunity and he would run, run, run, in a straight line, gloriously free, an entourage of huffing teenage smokers in his wake, struggling to catch up.

He would wait until there was only one book of matches left, in a household of chainsmokers after 7-11 had closed for the night, and then steal it with glee; waiting until you were close, so close, then show you the matches between his teeth before running past, up the stairs, down the stairs, loving the chase, basking in the attention…

As a pup, at our old house in the city, he would run up to greet the local kids as they walked home from the bus stop. Then he grew to be a gangly giant of a dog, but not understanding the game had changed, he would continue to run up to the gate, barking joyfully. The new crop of kids, not having known the puppy, instead seeing this black beast hurtling towards them, barking furiously, would scream and run past. Zoo thought it was the best fun.

When his water bowl would run dry, he would pick it up and carry it to where you were, drop it at your feet. If you did not fill it right away, he would think you were being particularly obtuse, picking it up again and throwing it down for emphasis, then dramatically licking the empty bowl. “Look,” his raised eyebrows would say, “I’m trying to drink water and nothing’s happening. ‘Cause it’s empty.” And as soon as you would get up to fill it, he’d snatch it up and walk off with it, just to be a pain. He did that right up to the end.

As he grew older, his penchant for drama grew as well. If I stayed up later than usual, engrossed in a book or a movie, he would heave himself up with an exaggerated sigh. He would try to nudge me up, and failing to elicit a response, he would walk to the doorway, glancing over his shoulder, and harumph loudly, not willing to retire to bed quietly, letting me know that he was disgusted with my careless and disrespectful ways.

If I stayed out of the house for longer than he was accustomed to, he would trot out to the kitchen and somehow finagle the bread from its “secure” position atop the toaster. He would bring it out to the living room and eat a hole through the plastic bag, but leave the bread untouched. When I opened the front door, pushing hard against his bulk, asleep on the other side, he would get up and look at me reproachfully. “Woman, look what you made me do. I had to find emergency provisions in case you never returned.”

As the years passed, he grew slower and slower. No more wild runs for the hills. Stairs were taken carefully and only if no other option was available. Once content to allow the children to ride on his back, he would now only let them sit for a moment or two before gently flicking them off and rolling quickly onto his side to discourage any attempts at remount.

He loved to give hugs and kisses, although in his latest years we accepted these hugs and kisses less, squealing and turning away, for he was stinky and gross.


We loved him in spite of his excema, his dreadlocked lion’s mane of hair, his foul breath, his horrible flatulence, his warts and lumps, his grumpy and curmudgeonly demeanor.

He was a Good Dog.

Friday afternoon he tried to get up after a long nap and could not. His legs simply did not want to cooperate. Believing he was stiff from lying on the floor, I helped him out the door, but things did not improve. He managed to stumble downhill, but we had to pull him back uphill and into the house on a sled. A lifetime sufferer of Lyme Disease, he had always resented people touching his legs and feet, but this day he allowed himself to be hoisted up. He understood that he could not manage without our help.

And we were beside ourselves with grief, knowing that this night would be our last with him. How is it that we were so ill-prepared?

The next morning was brutal, the waiting, watching the clock tick his last minutes by, hugging him and telling him how much I would miss him, knowing his deaf ears could not hear me. He reassured us, dropping his chin onto our hands, licking our faces, before sighing and laying his head back down. His heart was weak, his breath was labored, he was tired and he had given up. But his face was still cheerful, and he did not want us to be sad.

Those who did not know Zooey will want to mock me, for feeling such a deep chasm of sadness, for taking the time to type out a eulogy for a dog- and such an unattractive and ill-perfumed dog, at that.

I DO NOT CARE. AT ALL.

Because just saying good-bye is not enough. I need everyone to know that he was a Good Dog, he had more character and humor and personality than many people I’ve known, and I miss him, miss him.

There is a dog shaped hole in my heart and I don’t know how long it will take to heal. And for that I make no apology.

If anyone has any good Zooey memories, please please share them with me by posting a comment below. Please.

“I believe I essentially remain what I have almost always been- a narrator, but one with extremely pressing personal needs. I want to introduce, I want to describe, I want to distribute momentos, amulets, I want to break out my wallet and pass around snapshots…”

Molly has reminded me that Zooey loved nothing better than knowing he was in the middle of things, and would deliberately stretch out in exactly the worst possible place to be. She has sent me this photo from the beach:

Thanks, Molly.

May 1st is Mother Goose Day!

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Aah, Mother Goose.

The very first book that I can recall reading all by myself, a threadbare oversize hardback, in black-and-white checkered cloth.

Cassidy has discovered Mother Goose too; she often chooses it as one of her three bedtime books. It’s quite long, of course, so I always read it last, and she is invariably lulled to sleep by the lilting rhythms, an ebbing tide of verse.

I have to disclose, however, a little secret: Even after her breathing has become deep and even, I will continue to read, because I enjoy it; many of the rhymes are fun to chant, dancing trippingly on the tongue; and I know that my boys are yet awake, slowly tumbling into slumber, and I read for them as well. You are never too old to enjoy someone else’s reading aloud in the dark, letting the words flow over you, skating seamlessly into your dreams.

How much do you recall of your Mother Goose? I daresay you remember your Jack and Jill and your Humpty Dumpty, Little Miss Muffet and Mary with her little lamb.

I bet you know this one, too:


There was a little girl who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead;

When she was good, she was very, very good,

And when she was bad she was horrid.

But I was surprised by all that I had forgotten.

Mother Goose dispensed some sage advice that I think I just skimmed over as a child. Things like-

For every evil under the sun
There is a remedy or there is none.
If there be one, seek till you find it;
If there be none, never mind it.


Then there’s some that don’t end quite as I had thought:

The was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children she didn’t know what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread;
She whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.


This ditty has a twist at the end as well:

Oranges and lemons,
say the bells of St. Clement’s.

You owe me five fathings,
Say the bells of St. Martin’s.

When will you pay me?
Say the bells at Old Bailey.

When I grow rich,
Say the bells at Shoreditch.

When will that be?
Say the bells at Stepney.

I’m sure I don’t know,
Says the great bell at Bow.

Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.

Some may question the merits of this seemingly subversive nonsense. I love it. My kids love it.

This one is Cassidy’s favorite right now:

There was a crooked man,
And he walked a crooked mile;
He found a crooked sixpence
Against a crooked stile;
He bought a crooked cat,
Which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together
In a little crooked house.

And this is mine:

Goosey, goosey gander,
Whither shall I wonder?
Upstairs and downstairs
And in my lady’s chamber.
There I met an old man
Who would not say his prayers,
I took him by the left leg and threw him down the stairs.

These are the building blocks of a sense of rhythm and flow, an inherent sense of rhyme, and perhaps most importantly, a sense of humor.

Not to mention, a sense of culture and continuity.

I learned to read with Mother Goose. My mother, who immigrated to this country when she was in her thirties, learned to read English with that same Mother Goose that I did, at the same time. I bet my father, and his father, had Mother Goose read to them as young children.

And I do my part, passing on a legacy of generations, reading it to my children, hoping that they will cherish the memory enough to hold onto this book, keep it on their shelf like an old friend, visit now and then. Until they become adults and they read it to their own children, marveling at how the mind plays tricks, how the old becomes new again.